Illusions Of The Father
by V.Evergreen
Summary: Just because they grew up in the backseat of the Impala doesn't mean that they didn't grow up. A look through the intervening years. Violence warning.


"Dad! Dad! Dad, come look!"

John lifted his head from the mess of research that had slowly taken over the small table in their current motel. Dean was tugging on his sleeve, his face more animated than he'd seen it in far too long.

"What is it, son?" He asked rubbing a tired hand across his eyes, trying to get them to focus. He'd been staring at the same small print trying to make it make sense for the last three hours. Every time he thought he had something it slipped through his grasp like smoke in the night, leaving him with no answers and only a thousand more questions. It had been four months since the fire and yet he was no closer to finding answers than he had been when he watched his wife erupt into flames, pinned to the ceiling, her blood seeping through her thin nightgown.

He was brought back to the present abrubtly when Dean tugged at his sleeve impatiently, "No, you have watch."

He wouldn't get any peace until he'd turned around, he knew that much. Wearily, he turned around, careful to paste on a small smile when Dean looked to check that he was watching. It felt dead on his face, they had done for a while now, but Dean only smiled back.

His eldest son turned his back to his and picked up his brother, who'd been sitting quietly, staring with interest at anything that took his fancy. Dean picked up his brother, and oh-so-carefully placed him in his feet. John leant forward in his chair trying to see past Dean to what was going on.

"Come on, Sammy. Do what you did a few seconds ago show Dad what you showed me." Dean took a step backwards, hands outstretched and hovering, in case his brother should fall. John stood up and moved closer.

Sammy continued to stand, eyes fixed on his brother. Dean carried on with his constant stream of coaxing and encouragement but Sammy didn't move a muscle. John had almost given up on seeing what Dean was trying to show him when his youngest took a step.

Then he took another one.

And another one.

Dean was smiling so much John almost thought he was going to hurt himself but even he felt the first genuine twitch of a smile touch his lips. His baby was walking.

He watched as Dean shuffled back minutely, encouraging Sam to walk just that little bit further. His youngest's movements were shaky and a little unsteady but there was no mistaking it for anything other than his first steps.

He watched as Dean swooped in and picked his brother up, balancing him on his hip and laughing. Pretty soon, Sammy was smiling too, even if only for his brother's joy.

He stood back and watched them both, his two boys as they celebrated one of the first of their many milestones together. It should have been a perfect moment with all of them laughing and making a fuss of Sammy.

Yet all he could think of was that it was just one on the infinite list of things Mary would never get to see.

~o~o~o~

Dean scrutinised the map laid out in front of him. His young brow was furrowed in concentration as he focused on marking the previous attacks.

John watched on, lips twisted in pride. It was the first time he'd let his eldest take charge on a hunt and it was paying off. Dean made every move he would have done. Maybe a little slower and with less conviction but it didn't matter. Confidence would come in time and until then he would be there step in.

Dean broke through his reverie, "So if we block off the sewer exits here, here and here," he said drawing faint lines on the map, "we could trap it and move in for the kill." He glanced up uncertainly, "Right?"

John gave a rare smile to his son, "Right."

Dean was a fine hunter, that he knew, but some day he was going to be a great one.

~o~o~o~

"Dad?"

The whisper was quiet across the room, for which he was eternally grateful for. Sam had only just got over a head cold which had left him tired, drained and worst of all irritable.

He sighed, it was gettng dark out and it had been a long day.

"Yeah, Dean?"

There was a pause where he almost thought his son might have dozed off; hoped for it actually.

"What killed mom?"

Instantly he was awake. He looked across the room to his son, suddenly aware why he talked so quietly. Sammy didn't know about the hunting and Dean wasn't about to let it slip that their mom had been murdered, instead of the car accident that they'd always let him believe.

"Something really bad, Dean. Something awful." His voice was thick, almost like he might choke up. He cleared his throat and tried to speak as though he meant what he was about to say. As though he could make himself believe it, "But nothing you need to worry about. We're going after it. It won't come looking for you."

His son was too young to understand. Barely nine years old and already growing up too fast. He didn't need to know all about the monsters that lived among them. Not just yet. Especially when this particular monster didn't know that he even existed, and certainly wasn't coming back after them. Any indications he actually managed to catch of the damn thing were seemingly random and several states across.

They were safe.

Between them Sammy slept peacefully.

~o~o~o~

"Hey, Sam." Whispered a quiet voice across the dark interior of the impala.

"Wha' d'you want?" Came the sleep garbled reply.

"Where do ghosts send mail from?"

Glancing in the mirror he could see his youngest son shift in his seat to look at his brother curiously with sleepy eyes.

"I don't know, where?"

Dean paused for a second before grinning, "The ghost office, duh."

Sam snorted and John held back a groan. Sammy had found out about the hunting a few months back and seemed to have developed a sudden interest in the subject. Wanted to be more like Dean, he supposed.

"I've got a better one," Sam said more clearly. He was sitting properly in his seat instead of leaning against the window, a sign that he was properly waking up. John resisted the urge to bang his head against the steering wheel. That meant that rest of them would have the joy of a cranky eight year old later when he couldn't get to sleep. One of the perils of having to bundle your kids out of town after a hunt gone sideways. "What's a ghost's favourite game?"

John saw in the mirror Dean's face illuminated by the passing lights on the road and the waxy light of the moon. "I don't know." He said at last, "What?"

Sam cracked a smile, "Hide-and-go-shriek."

Dean laughed a little but quelled when he saw John's look in the rear view mirror.

"Don't you boys think you should be asleep?" He asked evenly. Guilty looks were both knew they should be but there was always something about driving at the dead of night that messed their nights up. He'd regret waking them up tomorrow afternoon when he wanted to strangle the both of them, but after the hunt he'd just had staying in the town wasn't an option.

A mutinous sounding "Yessir." Sounded from the backseat.

"After all," John carried on fighting to keep his voice stern, "you boys carry on and I'm gonna have to drop you off in the street where _all_ the ghosts live."

There was silence for a second before Sam, always the curious one, piped up, "Where's that, Dad?"

The smirk threatened to make an appearance as he met both his sons eyes in the mirror, "A dead end."

He might regret it in the morning when Sam refused to eat his dinner and Dean snapped at the slightest provocation but the sound of his sons cackling and laughing with glee as they drove through the night seemed to bounce off the interior of the 'pala making it feel more like a home than any crappy motel.

~o~o~o~

The day that the green army man that had been stuck in the ashtray since forever came out was three days after Sam's twelfth birthday.

He'd barely been paying attention to it. His hands had traced its outline as he looked out of the window, watching the scenery pass by with his head pressed against the window.

It was a suprise when it suddenly gave way under his fingers.

He could vaguely remember when it had been jammed there. He could recall that it was him that had actually done it, though Dean had taken one look at his worried face and promised with a long suffering sigh that he'd take the blame for it 'cause-

_"-it was my fault, anyway. I let you play with them and you're only a baby-"_

_"Hey!" _

He was only young and the thought of their dad finding out that there was now an extra passenger in the car had terrified him. For a whole week he'd made sure that he'd sat on that side of the car and covered it with his arm or a coat or what ever was to hand.

He'd only stopped when his dad had taken a look straight at him...and still remained completely oblivious to the soldier blatantly stuck in the ashtray. He gave up trying to hide it after that.

It became a sort of game between him and Dean. Who could draw the most attention to it without their dad actually clueing in.

He remembered thinking it was the best game ever when he was five, especially when Dad would give them a funny look and all they'd do was giggle.

They didn't play it anymore- hadn't done for years, but sometimes he'd see Dean look at it and snigger.

He cast a furtive at his brother and father. No one had noticed the toy soldier's new found freedom; his dad was driving and Dean had called shotgun, and neither had looked back.

Not pausing to think about it he jammed the soldier back into the door pushing it down with both hands. After a moment he took his hands off it and tried to nudge it experimentally. It didn't so much as budge.

With a smile he sat back and smiled. Dean didn't know that the soldier had almost escaped and Dad still hadn't noticed. Turned out things hadn't changed that much.

~o~o~o~

"Nuh uh!"

"Uh huh!"

John sighed. At fifteen and nineteen respectively he'd have thought his sons would've moved past the sibling bickering stage. Apparently he was mistaken. He resolved not to turn around. They could sort this one out without him.

The sound of a scuffle almost broke his nerve but he restrained himself from turning. He was cleaning his gun on a chipped wooden motel table but it was proving difficult when his hands kept clenching as the argument continued.

"Oh yeah?" Said Dean with a note of a triumph in his voice, "Well, then how come I can still do this?"

It was too much. John turned around and was greeted by the sight of Dean holding his furiously struggling brother in a headlock.

"Oh yeah?" Mimicked Sam through gritted teeth, "Then how come I can do this?"

His youngest twisted and escaped, somehow gaining the upper hand. Dean, caught off guard, lost his balance and crashed to the floor. Sam laughed for all of a second before a foot swept out, connecting solidly with his ankles and sent him tumbling to the floor as well.

The sound of squabbling escalated until John couldn't take it anymore, "That's enough!" He was soundly ignored by both his sons. His eyes narrowed. Getting up he stood over them, "THAT'S ENOUGH!"

The reaction was instantaneous as both froze.

John resisted the urge to pinch his nose in a vain attempt to stave off the impending migraine. "What happened?" He asked instead.

"Sam reckons he's taller than me." Said Dean sourly.

The ability of both of his sons to get under each others skin never ceased to amaze him.

Dean was tall, taller than him even. He'd crowed with delight when they had realised it but John had taken it in good grace as was befitting of a father. That and he'd seen how tall Sam was getting. Kid was lanky as hell but growing like a weed. It wouldn't be long before he deposed Dean of tallest in the family which made defeat a little easier to manage.

"Right," he said abruptly, "back to back."

"But Dad-"

"If you're gonna act like kids, you're gonna get treated like 'em." He said gravely, "Now get!"

In an instant both of them stood back to back in front of him. He ignored the crafty kick Sam aimed at his brother in the same way he ignored Dean rocking into his brother's back trying to make him stumble.

He looked up. They were perfectly even.

"Dean." He growled.

His oldest son grumbled as he sank down off his toes.

"Looks like Sam was right." He said eventually, "He's got the edge on you, Dean."

Sam laughed for a full minute before Dean stopped seething, "Yeah, whatever. You'll always be my little brother, _Samsquatch_."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

~o~o~o~

Sam was sixteen by the time John first let him lead a hunt. He was much older than when Dean had first gone solo but it wasn't a question of competence. Sam was plenty able to defend and kill for himself, but there was something about letting his youngest lead the hunt that made his uneasy in way that he hadn't been when Dean first took charge.

Sam didn't see things like they did. Dean was the perfect soldier: fast, smart but more importantly; willing to follow orders. Dean had done everything he had done in the order he would have done it in. Sam, however, did not.

It was well into the second day of Sam researching quietly that he made a pointed remark about the time passing.

Sam looked up half defiant and half as though he'd been expecting this for a while, "You said you'd follow my lead." He pointed out, "This is my lead."

He'd had to agree. It was only fair to afford Sam the same trust he'd given so much more easily to Dean. Still, in the morning of the third day the sound of the ticking clock grated more than it ever had before.

He was about to snap when Sam stood up and told them, eyes alight, that he'd figured out the pattern. Personally, he couldn't see it but when they arrived at the site in time to save the young family who'd unwittingly moved into the already inhabited house, he felt a twinge of pride. He'd never have been able to connect the dots like Sam had and neither would have Dean. Sam had saved this family by himself.

He clapped his son on the back as he walked past and gave him a rare smile. It wouldn't work all the time, three days was a lot of time to wait for a kill, but perhaps it had some merit. He resolved to listen to his youngest more often, if only for the additional insight.

He never did but it was a comforting thought.

~o~o~o~

It was a monumental fuckup from start to finish.

Dean had only just woken up from being hurled head first down two flights of stairs. When he'd crumpled on the floor, for a second John was sure he'd lost him. Sam had got there first and checked, shouted up that he was fine, but even now John wasn't completely sure. He had a worryingly dazed look and John didn't like the way that his uneven pupils randomly tracked things that neither him nor Sam could see.

Of course, Dean was actually the lucky one.

Sam was covered in blood.

Thick stripes slashed across his face, masking his grey tinged skin beneath. It had congealed in his hair making it stick together in clumps, dry, stiff and unmovable. But even worse were the clumps of not-blood (John wasn't sure if Sam even knew that there was human flesh dried to him, but he sure as hell wasn't going to mention it) that were matted in alongside the blood. Sam had been holding the victim as she was literally ripped apart in his arms.

It was meant to be a simple hunt. Find spirit. Burn spirit. Celebrate another family saved.

It hadn't been a spirit and the family was smeared over the walls.

It was a revenant. Not all that different from a ghost except in how you gank it. Needless to say that having been expecting a simple vengeful spirit they weren't prepared in the slightest. When the thing had realised they were hunters it had tried to kill everything. Damn near succeeded too.

There were three people living in the house, it had been occupied by two middle aged parents and their teenaged daughter. Now it held none.

It had gone straight for the mother. The woman hadn't even taken three steps before she froze and her neck twisted suddenly. The sound of grating bones and a limp body falling to the floor commanded silence.

Then it turned its focus on the father. It got more creative with him. He bled to death though John couldn't explain how. Blood just kept pouring out of him, mouth, eyes and nose. He'd tried to swallow, as though trying to keep the blood from escaping but the result had been worse. It looked like he'd choked himself when he started hacking up a lung and spraying semi-congealed globules at the walls.

John had fallen to his last resort, an exorcism he saved for when everything went to shit and people were gonna keep dying. Times like this. He hadn't got very far when he saw the daughter run into the hallway and try to wrench open the door. Damn near wrenched off her arm instead. Bastard had locked them all in.

"Over here!" He heard Sam shout at the girl over his chanting.

He looked, Sam had managed to smash open one of those fancy widows that sat too far from the ground to jump through. The girl seemed to understand. She ran over and without a word Sam gave her a leg up to escape. She had a leg through the window when she gave a blood curdling shriek and toppled backwards. It was obvious she hadn't fallen but been pushed. Sam caught her but even his tall frame couldn't take the awkward angle and sudden unexpected weight without collapsing back into the wall.

John kept chanting. The reverant- spirit- whatever it was, seemed to realise that it didn't have much time left to it. Instead of going for John, as he perhaps hoped that it would have, it returned to Sam and the girl with vigour.

It tried to drag the girl away but Sam tightened his hold on her, refusing to let her be led to slaughter. So instead it just killed her where she was.

It practically shredded her. John had been in the business for more years than he'd care to admit and as desensitised as he'd grown, this made him want to throw up.

Bone deep cuts sliced through skin. Hair was pulled until it came out and limbs were squeezed so tightly he could the joins creak and give way. Sam tried to fight the thing off but he couldn't loosen his hold without the girl being dragged off as more and more scratches raked across her.

John chanted faster. It was clearly weakening though he could tell it was too late for the girl. She was unrecognisable now. Tortured flesh with gleams of white bone cutting through sinew and muscle. Blood saturated both her and Sam and her agonised screams had died along with her. She was still.

Sam's face was streaked with blood where her flailing hands had daubed him. He didn't move either.

With a final shout and a gust of wind he finished the exorcism. Nothing moved.

It felt like and eternity, though it could have been minutes, before Sam pushed the mutilated carcass that had once been a person off of him. He didn't say a word as he walked past his father to get Dean.

John, for all his training and experience, didn't know what to do. Or rather he knew what he was _supposed_ to do, but he didn't know what he was _actually_ going to do. Realistically, the best thing to do was to escape while they could but something stopped him. Ten minutes ago, before they'd arrived or even set foot in this house there were three people living there. A family, happy and living a with an apple pie on the table and a white picket fence in the yard. Now they were dead on the floor. It was times like these he wondered if he should have even come at all.

He stiffened his spine and walked purposefully out of the room. Sam had been a while and he might need help. And he had to escape those thoughts. They wouldn't lead to anywhere except the bottom of a bottle.

He saw Dean first, sat up against a wall, looking as though he might check back out at any moment. He didn't see Sam until he stepped forward.

His youngest sat on the bottom step of the stairs that his brother had just landed at the end of with a gun resting in his hands. It was the one Dean always carried; flashy and engraved but perfectly capable of doing its job which was the main thing. It must have skittered across the floor when Dean landed only to be picked up by his brother.

John cleared his throat and Sam's head jerked upwards. The contemplative look coupled with the lightly held gun made the air in his lungs freeze.

With three strides he'd closed the space between them and snatched it out of his son's hands.

"Your hands were shakin'." He said gruffly in explanation. The panic, irrational or no, still hadn't abated when Sam looked down at his perfectly steady hands. Too many years of adrenaline had forced that habit out of him.

Sam only stared back.

They didn't talk about it again.

~o~o~o~

"He's gone." Dean croaked, "He's not coming back."

For one god awful second John considered putting on more bravado.

_Good riddance. He didn't want to be a part of the family. He's not like us Dean, he's weaker than us. We're better off without him. We're faster, stronger, _better_. _

_I want him back. _

"He'll be back soon." He said instead, fighting to keep his voice from cracking. The awful things he'd said to his son, his own flesh and blood echoed in his head like nightmares that wouldn't let him rest.

It was the wrong thing to say.

Dean turned on him, his face contorted into something fearsome that had never been directed at him before, "How can you say that?" He spat, "He's not coming back, Dad! He's gonna stay away just like you told him to!"

"Dean-"

Dean gave a humourless laugh, "Didn't you know this was gonna happen what with you snapping at everything he said? Correcting everything? Telling him what to do without telling him why?" He stopped suddenly, taking a breath to try and calm himself down, "He's had that letter for weeks now, Dad."

The acceptance letter to Stanford that he'd found and practically thrown in his son's face.

"I kept on and on at him to tell you. Thought we could work something out." Dean looked weary. More weary than anyone with such a young face should look. "And then you go tell him to go and never come back. Well, guess what? He's not. He's gonna go off and build himself a new life and we don't get to be part of it."

It was too much for his eldest. The air was still thick from the blow out with Sam and he could hear that note in Dean's voice which meant he was dangerously close to crying. He grabbed his coat and was almost at the door when he turned around again.

"Maybe it's a good thing. He's probably better off without us."

The door slammed shut and almost silent footsteps retreated into nothing.

He pushed a shaky hand through his hair. He'd made a mistake. A huge one. So huge it might even make volume one in _Things John Winchester Managed To Unintentially Fuck Up. _

He looked out the window to see if he could make out Dean's shape through the dark, but he couldn't see anything.

His breathing came a little harder when he realised that somewhere out there in the dark his youngest son, his baby, was out there alone. He wished that Sam still _was_ his baby, someone one could bundle up against the dangers of the world and teach without being questioned.

But Sam had grown up. He didn't need a father anymore.

~o~o~o~

Dean sort of forgave him, in time.

Sam, evidently, did not.

With his eldest it was more like he shared out the blame. He blamed them both. And he was pretty sure Dean hated them equally for it.

It had been almost three years since Sam had walked out (_was made to walk out,_ his mind supplied) on them and in all that time he hadn't contacted them once. Not even Dean.

They tried not to talk about Sam the best they could. John knew that Dean had driven to Stanford at least twice and that on both occasions Sam either wasn't there or had refused to see him. Before all of this happened he would have laughed at the idea of Sam refusing to see Dean. But now he wondered.

They didn't talk about Sam but the truth was that they didn't actually talk. Only about the hunt and even then the words were tired and clipped and there were never any more than there needed to be.

He realised this on the day that he realised what needed to be done.

Dean probably didn't even realise what he did but he'd developed a tic. A tell that wrote his thoughts across his face plain as day. Something that would have given him away in a poker game quicker than he could draw his gun.

Whenever he thought of Sam he'd reach for the pendant that hung around his neck.

It was dull and dirty, and the leather cord was worn but he was never without it. He knew Sam had given it to him but he didn't know the specifics. Never even thought to ask. But Dean reached for that thing an awful lot.

He waited 'til Dean was out. Didn't ask where he was going, didn't even acknowledge the half assed excuse.

He waited until the comforting sound of the Impala faded into the dark of the night. Savoured it, since he knew it was gonna be a while until he heard it again.

He packed his things quickly, a lifetime of practice lending itself to efficiency. Shrugged on a coat and opened the door.

He turned back to look just once. Dean's things took up half the room and yet looked oddly alone by themselves. All alone and trying to fill up too big a space.

He turned back to face the night before he could weaken and change his mind. Dean didn't need him anymore. He might think he did but he was wrong. He was a better hunter, a better _man_ than his father would ever be.

A sudden memory of staring out at his last glimpse of his youngest son three years ago flooded his mind and along with a certainty that burned at him, forcing him to face it.

They didn't need him anymore. His sons were grown up.

And they'd grown up just fine.


End file.
